


Flowers

by DeafAndDaring



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:06:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeafAndDaring/pseuds/DeafAndDaring
Summary: You own a flower shop, and one day someone comes in with a rather, unique request.





	Flowers

It seemed the world was content. Not much happening since the reverse snap. You quietly existed, your flower shop nothing special but exactly what you needed in your life at the time. Moving away from what you used to do, five years gone and no time like the present. You were basking in the sunrise, opening curtains to your shop before opening the door, propping it open with a large flower pot. The clouds reflected a deep Red, warning of storms to come during the day. Sighing, you went to moving around flowers, pulling the dead ones from your display wall, sprucing up the potted plants that littered the shop, and folding blankets over the various seating. You were in the sunroom in the back when the ding of someone entering alerted you to company.

“One second!” you hollered, swiftly climbing down the large wooden ladder. Tying your apron around your waist, you smiled at the large man standing in the lobby, looking at your wall of flowers. His dark brown hair was tucked up under a ballcap, a leather jacket matching the Motorcycle parked out front. 

“How can I help you?” you asked smiling softly. The man looked up at you, a sad smile on his face.

“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?” He asked, tucking his hands in his front pocket. 

Blinking a few times, you grabbed a vase from the wall and set it on the counter. Wandering to the wall of flowers, you picked through them, pulling the ones you needed in an array of blooming and buds, making sure it’d last as long as it could for the man watching you. Setting your pickings on the counter, you pulled up two stools, placing one on each side of the counter.

“Coffee?” You asked, smiling at the man

“Um, no, I’m okay. Thank you.” He muttered, looking around. You shrugged, pouring two cups from the craft behind you and fixing one how you like, leaving the other black. You sat them both down, sitting on your stool and began clipping. A few minutes passed before you cleared your throat.

“I don’t bite, you know. And I know you’d like some coffee, You smell like Coffee.” You said, glancing up quickly to see the blush on his face. The man moved and sat down, taking a sip from the mug, still watching you pluck and prim the bouquet.

“Thank you.” he said softly, earning a soft smile and nod. “Will you tell me why you picked those flowers?” He nodded towards the piles of clipped and pruned blossoms.

“Oh, yeah. Geraniums for Stupidity,” You began, picking up each flower as you went, quickly arranging them. “Foxglove for insincerity, Meadowsweet is uselessness. Yellow carnations, while pretty, mean ‘you have disappointed me’, and orange lilies, hatred.” 

You took a few quiet moments finishing the arrangement, and your coffee, making sure the buds would bloom another full arrangement in a day or so. Satisfied, you turned it towards the man.

“I pity the girl you give these to.” You smiled, ringing him up for the bouquet. “If you bring back the glass vase I can give you back about half of the total.” you said, looking up and seeing his somber face. “Are you okay? Was it something I said?”

“No, no it’s okay. They aren’t for a girl. They’re for my best friend, Steve.” He said, looking at the flowers. “Today is his funeral.” 

“I’m sorry. Although, I’ve done a lot of bouquets for funeral, why “fuck you”? Most people don’t want something so...?” You gestured to the relatively happy bouquet.

“Our little joke. ‘Till the end of the line’, his just came long before mine. The punk, always was impulsive, he’d think it’s funny.” He smiled, standing and pulling out his wallet. The man pulled out a wad of bills, handing it to you.

“It’s only $20, Mr..?”

“Bucky, and please, take it. You deserve it.”

“Bucky. Thank you.” you placed the money in a jar behind the counter labeled ‘for more coffee (and flowers)’, your version of a tip jar.

“No, thank you. Really, I’ve been trying to find you for a while. And you made me coffee.” Bucky picked up the bouquet and left the shop, leaving you speechless. Your brain caught up with his words, you ran out the door as he settled on the bike.

“Bucky! What do you mean, you’ve been trying to find me?” You stood outside the shop, confused and looking at him. He smiled softly, pulling a sketchbook out of his side bag. Handing it to you, you flipped through the pictures. Your storefront, the wall of flowers, your back huddled over a cup of coffee, face hidden by flowers. Dozens of sketches, watercolors, and oil colors of your shop.

“Steve, and his girl. They used to stop by, a lot by the looks of it. Maybe a while ago... He would tell me stories about this place, said it was a treasure but the girl inside was the gold. He always said I had to come with him, meet the perfect girl. But I didn’t want to ruin his time with Peggy.”

You continued looking at the pictures, flipping to the last one and seeing a familiar face.

“Peggy Carter? Your friend Steve is my Mysterious Artist who came in with Peggy?”

“You knew them?”

“They were regulars. I considered them my family, Told them everything. They helped me get up and running. Told me they were going on a trip a while ago, not to come back.”

You folded the book back, holding it out to Bucky. He took it, Opening the cover and scribbling inside it.

“Maybe we can exchange stories.” He handed it back, before starting his bike, dark clouds coming in. “They’d want you to have that.”

You nodded at him, clutching the book to your chest. No more words were spoken, None needed to be.

Steve Rogers, the Artist, friend, and inspiration, was dead.

_ Fuck you, for never saying goodbye.  _


End file.
